Euthanise the Creature

Much like the right kind of sex, I smell good 

in the unwashed ambience of a Sunday morning 

when taking a shortcut through the churchyard 

and getting home on whatever God doesn’t keep.

There are those of us who will never 

catch the scent of it on their tongues 

and for that, I am sympathetic as a hallway.

There are nights that I too have stretched my palms 

across the neighbouring body to mine 

and convinced myself 

that the innocuous hum of indifference 

travelling between us was some kind 

of beautiful song in a foreign language. 

There are times that I too have fantasised 

of a call for help at the foot of the stairs 

as the hallway and I remain silent. 

The both of us, on our backs since birth, 

have no business asking anything remain unbroken.

St. Guthlac Street

The boys had been fighting upstairs again, 

two-out-of-three falls giddy 

in punch-ups

but still sleeping with the light on,

and the lamppost outside, concerned,

all struggle-mouth to articulate 

the ways it would be needed 

to shine pretty-bastards of light 

on their sons,

or the strict wind of a cringing god

to tear great-galloping-shitless

through them 

to bite down on their scruffs

guiding them above the frequency of the street

every house, a big dented radio of warning, 

every bathroom, a child in the tub,

inviting every radio he could find.

Silk Cut

Look, sometimes we let a little trauma 

salt the meat of the men we become 

when we were boys 

every son on the street 

was a murderer 

suffocating their softest parts

so their fathers 

had less of them to hurt

unbuttoning buildings 

to sneak upstairs 

past curfew

if caught 

their cries for mercy

were tested on the damn birds

until the damn birds 

were broken.

Dean Rhetoric is a working class poet currently eroding in East London. He has had poetry published in Crab Creek Review, Five:2:One Magazine, Rising Phoenix Review and others. Please read him with appropriate apathy.

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